The In-Between TIme
by Madison2667
Summary: This story is a summary of all the times Sherlock Holmes wanted to tell John he was alive, but knew he couldn't, and refrained. Slight JohnLock, no swearing or suggestive themes.


The first day was by far the hardest. Sherlock had always found mind games easy, but emotional ones always put him to the test. For once, he couldn't tell the difference even if he wanted to.

When he saw John standing over his grave, falling apart bit by bit, all the counseling and therapy he had received being broken apart, Sherlock almost called out to him right then. But logic and reason won out (as they always do) and he turned his back on his best and only friend.

During the first week, the 6th day, Sherlock received a text.

_**Sherlock,**_

******_There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about you. Every night, I see you in my nightmares, arms flailing and body plummeting toward the pavement. I desperately want to believe you're alive, but I figure I must accept it at one point or another. I know that if you were here, you would analyze me and see bags under my eyes or my shirts wrinkled and slacks not pressed and tell me to get over myself because they're only emotions. But I just have to say, I know it's too little too late, but I just need you to know. You were always my best friend, and my love for you will continue on, even in death._**

**_John H. Watson_**

Even Sherlock Holmes could admit, that after that his insides did this weird twisty thing that made him sick to his stomach. The after effects of this text could only be contrasted to the extreme with drawl of going from smoking two packs a day to cold turkey for four months, the time catching up all at once. Ringing in the back of his mind was Mycroft's voice, "Emotions are only for the weak, little brother. People like us should not be bothered with such things." And somehow, Sherlock refrained himself from puking a second time.

By the second month, Sherlock could go almost two days without nightmares. The nightmares always consisted of the same thing, John's face as Sherlock fell, emotions conflicting and eyes locked on his figure. Confusion and fear and shock and denial and sadness all fighting for dominance in his best friends eyes. That vision usually faded away just as Sherlock would have hit the pavement, replace by John yet again, tears streaming down his face, yelling himself hoarse, that Sherlock Holmes wasn't dead because Sherlock Holmes didn't just die, and that how could he not tell him? Weren't best friends supposed to tell each other everything? But he too faded away, and then it was just John Watson standing in front of him and in a grief stricken voice saying, "Sherlock." It was barely a whisper but to Sherlock the word seemed to be amplified by at least 50%, nearly bursting his eardrums.

But then Sherlock would wake up with tears in his eyes not yet falling and pick up his phone and begin to type. "I miss you, John. And I will never really be gone, I hope you know that." Or just a simple, "John, I'm alive." Or if he was feeling particularly ironic that day, "Not dead." Every time he wrote these, his fingers would hover over the send button, sometimes for minutes on end, before his hand twitched and instead hit the delete button.

**Would you like to delete draft?**

**Delete Draft Save Draft**

He always hit delete.

When the six month marker passed, Sherlock admitted himself a single tear, a spare moment of weakness. He let himself shed a tear as a reward for having the willpower to completely avoid any contact with perhaps the most important man in his life. So there he sat, the great Sherlock Holmes, reduced to shaking while he leaned up against a wall for support because the emotional turmoil inside him couldn't possibly give him the stability he needed to stand on his own. At these moments of hopelessness and defeat, Sherlock realized that not only did he want John Watson to be there, he _needed _John Watson.

On the 424th day, one year and two months exactly, Sherlock Holmes was fine. He was moving on. He had a case, he had a place, he had purpose. The people he cared about the most were safe, Moriarty was dead, and Sherlock had made it through Valentine's Day without too many near death experiences. Everything was, in all reality, good.

One week before being reunited: Sherlock felt great, really. He was totally and utterly fine. Maybe he hadn't slept in eight days except for the 30 minutes he received while unconscious and the only reason he was alive was because his captors needed him for information. Maybe he was beaten to a pulp, suspended from chains, but he was fine. He totally wasn't thinking about John. He definitely wasn't thinking that maybe he should have been more honest with John. And he sure as hell wasn't regretting his fake suicide if it had meant saying goodbye to John. Nope. Not one bit. And when Mycroft decided that Sherlock was close enough to death to pull him out, he was definitely not thinking about seeing Dr. John Hamish Watson again, oh no, instead he was musing about Ms. Hudson's sweet tea.

When Sherlock saw John again, the relief he felt was shocking, so shocking, he almost collapsed just thinking about it. The tight knot of anxiety that Sherlock hadn't known was building up suddenly released and he had to resist the urge to cry of joy. But John certainly didn't see it that way.

Sherlock Holmes had never truly been one to trust his instincts, only facts, but when he stepped through the threshold of his flat, it was like the uncomfortable feeling that he'd had in his chest the whole two years he was away just magically disappeared, and he relaxed. As if Ms. Hudson's biscuits and John's favorite arm chair were there purely to satisfy him.

Of course, it took time for John's anger to settle down, but when it did Sherlock realized that at heart he was still the same man- loving an adrenaline rush but cautious where need be and understanding to others who needed it. Sherlock was grateful for this. While he had been gone, so much had changed and he never got a break, he was always analyzing, always on the lookout for danger. There was never any time for calm, which although it was not widely known, is something Sherlock cherished. For the first time in a long time, with John H. Watson by his side, Sherlock felt at home in 221B Baker Street.

**-FIN. **


End file.
